ever belonged to my family.’
‘You can still fight for your family’s honour. Not with sword or pistol, it’s true—but you know as well as I there are other ways. I’m going back to France tomorrow—and if your brother’s still alive, I will find him, I swear.’
Tom Bartlett came in, with more logs for the fire. ‘You’re talking about the captain’s brother?’ he said eagerly. ‘Who knows—he might even turn up here one day, right out of the blue. I can just see it, Captain Luke—he’ll ride up the track, bold as ever, and tell us all his adventures, just like he used to.’
Jacques nodded approvingly. ‘That’s the spirit. Let’s raise our glasses to the captain’s brother. Let’s wish him a safe journey home!’
‘To Anthony,’ they echoed. ‘A safe return.’
* * *
Gradually, the fire died down. Midnight came and went; they talked of battles they’d fought and comrades they’d known until at last, knowing they must rise well before dawn, they went off to their beds.
All of them except Luke.
The big house was quiet enough now for him to hear the whisper of the wind in the trees outside and the faint hiss of the waves breaking on the long shingle beach below the cliffs. Somewhere in the distance a nightbird called.
He went to stir the embers of the fire, lifting the metal poker with his maimed right hand by mistake. Fool. Fool. The heavy implement clattered on the hearth. He picked the poker up almost savagely with his left hand and jabbed at the logs until they roared into life.
Damn it. He was of no use to anyone, least of all to himself. He ripped off the black leather glove and stared at the two stumps where his fingers had been. The scars had almost healed, and as for the ache of the missing joints—well, he was used to it.
What he could not grow used to was the feeling that his younger brother—who’d relied on him, who’d trusted him—was lost for good. Was dead, like the others. By hoping that Anthony had somehow survived, he’d made the final blow ten times as bad for himself.
Again and again during these last few months, he’d cursed his injured hand, because it had stopped him sailing to France with Jacques and hunting the coast for clues or answers. He couldn’t use a pistol, or a sword; wasn’t even much use at helping sail a ship. But perhaps Fate was telling him that he should turn his mind to other matters.
Perhaps Fate was reminding him that the answers he was seeking could also lie here, in England, not in France at all. Perhaps Fate was telling him that here, he could find out what had really happened to Anthony and his brave comrades. Why they had been betrayed—and by whom. Even though such secrets were as closely guarded as rich men’s fortunes.
He thought again of Lord Franklin Grayfield, a rich widower in his late forties; a remote, clever man who had a son out in India whom he hadn’t seen for years. Lord Franklin Grayfield, who cared far more for his art collection, it was said, than for female company.
Yet he’d claimed an unknown French girl as his
relative—the girl Luke had met that afternoon. Harshly, he dismissed his memory of the light lavender scent that emanated, ever so faintly, from her creamy skin. Harshly, he thrust aside his awareness of her downright vulnerability and the haunting sadness in her eyes. Instead, he told himself to remember the pistol she’d handled so deftly and so purposefully—as if in mockery of his own injury.
Caroline used to squeal in girlish horror at any mention of the war and weapons. But the French girl had that dainty gun and looked as if she knew how to use it. What kind of life had she led, before coming to England? And if the pistol had startled him, what in God’s name was he to make of the compass she’d dropped?
Once again Luke remembered the astonishing inscription that he’d seen engraved upon its side—he found that his heart was speeding at just the thought of it. He also remembered the look on her face as she’d snatched it from him. No wonder she was so eager—so very eager—to get it back.
Who was she, really? And what in hell was she doing here, under Lord Franklin’s so-called protection?
Ellie, too, was still awake, sitting alone by the window in the icy spaciousness of her bedroom in Bircham Hall. It was past midnight. But she couldn’t sleep, because this was a day she would never, ever be able to forget.
After the repair to the road, Lord Franklin’s carriage had made swift progress, its driver no doubt eager to make up for the delay. They’d left the main road to pass through some gates by a well-lit lodge, after which they followed a long private drive; Ellie had seen how the carriage lamps picked out clumps of winter-bare trees set amidst grassy parkland.
And as they crossed the bridge over a river, she had her first view of the Hall—stately and foursquare, with flambeaux burning on either side of the huge, pillared entrance, as if in defiance of the January night.
Lord Franklin’s country residence. It was magnificent. It was haughty and forbidding. ‘Oh, look,’ cried Miss Pringle, who was peering out of the window, too. ‘Here we are at last, Elise. And I see—goodness me!—that all the staff are outside, waiting to greet you!’
Indeed, Ellie had seen them all there in the cold: the maids in black and the footmen, straight as soldiers, clad in Lord Franklin’s livery of navy and gold.
All waiting for her. Ellie’s heart sank.
But Miss Pringle practically bubbled with excitement. ‘Such an honour for you!’ she murmured as the grooms hurried to hold the horses and lower the carriage steps. ‘Such a very great honour! And look—here is Mr Huffley, his lordship’s butler...’
‘Miss Pringle. Mademoiselle.’ The butler made a stiff bow to them as they descended from the carriage. ‘It is my pleasure, mademoiselle,’ he went on to Ellie, bowing again, ‘to welcome you most heartily to Bircham Hall. Allow me to present our housekeeper, Mrs Sheerham. Our cook, Mrs Bevington. The senior housemaid, Joan...’
The maids curtseyed to her, the footmen bowed their heads to her; all politeness, all decorum, despite the fact that their breaths were misting in the chilly air. For their sakes Ellie got through the ceremony as quickly as she could, then followed Mr Huffley up the stone steps to the house.
And only then did she remember that there was somebody else she had yet to meet.
‘Lady Charlotte will be expecting you,’ Miss Pringle was whispering at her side. ‘I declare, I cannot wait to see her ladyship again.’
The entrance hall was huge and cold, its walls hung with coats of arms and stags’ heads. All kinds of statues stood on either side of the hall: reclining figures of smooth white marble, stone busts set on pillars, precious relics that must, Ellie realised, have come from the ancient civilizations of Greece or Rome or Egypt.
It was a proud house, thought Ellie to herself with a shiver. All these priceless objects from the past seemed to be there to declare the history, wealth and importance of those who dwelt there. And in the midst of all this, as if claiming her own right to be a part of the grandeur, was a lady in her
